


On we two the high stars will shine

by Scribe



Category: Fionavar Tapestry - Guy Gavriel Kay
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribe/pseuds/Scribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Matt and Loren.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On we two the high stars will shine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [franglemand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/franglemand/gifts).



> With the most incredibly grateful thanks to Aly, who talked me through every single step of this process and without whom this fic would simply not exist.
> 
> Disclaimer: a few lines in this fic are taken directly from Guy Gavriel Kay's work, including the title, which comes from Lisseut's song about meetings in Fionvarre in _A Song for Arbonne_.
> 
> Warnings: No graphic violence, but the teen rating is for a bit of blood.

"I always thought you had the makings of an artist," said Matt, leading the way toward his workroom.

He seemed truly happy of late, perhaps for the first time in all the years they'd known each other. Loren was accustomed to him keeping his own council, providing quiet support but few of his own thoughts, staying a little apart. It was strange to see another side to him. Some of it was due to the demands of kingship, surely, but Loren was also increasingly aware that the Matt he'd known had left behind every single one of his people, the life he understood, to dwell in a foreign kingdom with a race not his own.

But they had done, impossibly, what they had done. Rakoth Maugrim was dead and Matt was alive and he smiled now, truly, not the grimace Loren had known for so long, and he ruled under the mountain and offered to teach Loren stone carving in his spare time.

"I suppose there's never been a better time for beginning a new career," Loren said. He seemed impossibly cheerful these days, even to himself. There was light in the world, and Matt was smiling.

"We will, then," said Matt. "It might take even you some time to become a master craftsman, though, so I've done this first piece for you."

He swung open the workroom door to reveal a stately chair, the back almost level with his own head, detailed engraving running over the arms and down the sides: nothing forbidden, but inspiration taken clearly from a source, the familiar lines of the sky runes melting into art. It was the first thing Matt had carved since the crystal dragon Loren had held, awed, in moonlight by the Queen of Waters.

"If you're staying, I thought you might as well have something to sit on where your knees don't fold up to your chin," said Matt Sören, King of the Dwarves, who- despite thrones forfeited and reclaimed, powers gained and lost, life itself sacrificed and reawakened, through battles and alien worlds and ever closer to fifty years of time on the Weaver's loom- who after everything was still Matt, whom Loren had met in his twenty-second summer in the Skeledarak foothills, and had loved.

 

\--

 

Loren was no stranger to battle. He'd been on the brink of adolescence when Ailell's civil war had broken out, too young to participate but old enough to understand what he was missing. He had only just begun to study magelore, the premonitions that set him apart even in childhood taking him all the way to Paras Derval and the tutelage of the First Mage himself. He could see battle from his windows. There were no lessons; the capital was besieged, and besides the First Mage was dead now, dead at the High King's hand to start a war. He understood as well that one day he might- no, he would- wield a power great enough to make a difference in times such as these.

His first taste of that came in the last war with Cathal, some ten years after Matt had returned with him to Paras Derval. To say he liked battle would be misleading; what he liked was himself in battle. He did not kill- it was Amairgen's law, not in a war against a foe that lacked magic to defend itself- but he could shield and heal and send messages faster than a raithen rider. He was good at it. There was a brilliant clarity to his thoughts, confidence in every split-second decision. His awareness seemed to grow, as if it somehow encompassed more than could possibly be noticed by just one person. He was already on his way to becoming a trusted advisor to the king, but his deeds in the war confirmed it.

His, and Matt's.

So, a battlefield: a punishingly hot afternoon outside Seresh, trying to stave off a wave of reinforcements from Cathal. Both sides had held their ground for several grueling hours when a great cry went up from around the king.

Loren had grown up in Rhoden when Ailell was Duke, in the days before both of them had come to Paras Derval; he'd owed allegiance to this man for all his life. He turned and ran.

His thoughts spun on, as fast as ever: here was the fastest route, weaving back through their own lines for safety. Matt was behind him. They would get there first: Eliard and Toben were closest, but Eliard was old and didn't cover ground quickly. Brennin was losing ground for the first time that day, scrambling into defensive positions against a triumphant attack. And then he was pushing through the circle of men who had closed to shield the wounded king.

It was serious. Not much hope, at a glance- Ailell was unconscious, a great slash opened from stomach to chest. Loren knelt, and waited the moment it took for Matt to arrive. He knew when he had without turning to look, knew that Matt had bent and braced his hands on his knees the instant he stopped moving, knew Matt was tired but steady, sunk deep in their bond from hours of battle. The first magic he did was an assessment. A burn or a broken bone might be healed in an instant, but there was no sense in simply closing the wound if he didn't also find what damage had been done inside. Loren worked as quickly as he ever had. He could save a man from mortal injury, but no mage of Brennin could wake the dead.

And then Matt _screamed_.

There was a wrench in the magic, too, but what seized Loren's heart was the sound, unlike anything he'd heard from Matt in all their years together. He whirled around. Matt was staggering, blood streaming from a gash on one side of his face, already soaking his beard and shirt. Loren made a sound; he didn't know what.

Later he realized that one of the soldiers must have intervened, must have engaged Matt's assailant and stopped him from landing another strike. Standing there, though, all his clarity was gone. He was aware of nothing but the two of them, had no thoughts but panic and instinct. He reached out- did Matt have enough strength left to heal himself? He must. He _must_.

Matt staggered backward, away from him.

"You idiot," he gritted out. "I'll live. He won't."

Loren stared. He was bone white under the blood, clearly fighting to keep his feet, and he was right. He was right, and Loren had forgotten the king.

"Hurry up," growled Matt.

So Loren sent the last of his source's strength searing behind him to bind Ailell to his mortal life, and turned, helplessly, to catch Matt as he fell.

 

Loren saw no more of the war that year. He was of no use without a source, but even if he'd been commanded back to battle he wouldn't have left Matt's side. Matt, characteristically, seemed mostly undisturbed by the whole thing. His face was healing well and quickly, for the most part, but Eliard hadn't arrived in time to save the eye. For a few weeks he was shaky on his feet, relearning his perception of the world, but once he'd adjusted he was much as he'd ever been. Eliard's student Teyrnon, whose brother was a leatherworker, brought him a handsome patch to wear, and Matt seemed to think no more of it.

The one thing that did change was that those few people who were still wary of a Dwarf's intentions in the palace were finally thoroughly convinced. The king himself thanked Matt publicly, and bestowed on him the name Sören for his deeds.

It took years, though, before Loren could look at the patch without feeling sick. He hid his reaction well, but Matt knew him better than anyone in all the worlds. He knew that Loren recoiled out of guilt, not revulsion, and he forgave him that too, as simply and easily as he had forgiven the loss of an eye. The years passed. In time it seemed natural that Matt was Matt Sören, almost impossible for Loren to remember a time when his awareness hadn't encompassed Matt's periphery as well as his own.

They only talked about it once. It was evening in Paras Derval; the king was recuperating, leaderless Brennin was losing ground in the west, and the two of them were mostly just being in each other's company, half-attending to a game of ta'bael. Matt kept misjudging the distance when he reached for a piece. He laughed at himself every time, making it impossible for Loren to pretend that he hadn't noticed.

"I'm sorry, you know," Matt said eventually. "There are things in the world that are bigger than me." His face creased up familiarly, inviting Loren to share the joke. It had never quite been a smile, but now, with the patch and the healing scar, it was more of a grimace than anything.

Loren smiled back absently. He was paying more attention to the old familiar chill that had come over him, the feeling like echoes at the edges of his vision. His premonitions had grown fewer over the years, but the sensation was the same as it always was.

"There are things larger than the two of us," Matt was saying. "I'm sorry you had to sacrifice me, truly sorry I had to ask that of you, but there was no other way."

Please just stop there, thought Loren, wishing with all his heart, knowing it was futile. Matt's words were ringing in his mind.

"I'd make the same choice if something like that happened again, with no regrets," said Matt, unaware. "Even if it meant my life."

 

\---

 

They had been traveling almost a year together when Loren took them west across the plains. Matt had never left the mountains before the day he'd turned his back on them forever, and he was content to let Loren choose their path. They'd spent the spring in Eridu, but as summer took hold they climbed through Edryn Gap and out into open country.

The plains were beautiful, but in a way that was utterly alien to Matt, the sun brilliant in a clear sky that seemed to stretch forever, the land level and easy and unending. They stopped in their tracks several times to watch a swift of eltor dart from one horizon to the other, although neither made any move to interfere; they ate plants and small game, mostly, and a few provisions brought from Teg Veirene.

They were not just wandering, though, as they had before. Matt, who might have once been lost in the strange, unchanging terrain, could tell that Loren was leading them on a straight and steady course. He said nothing about it; there was no point in explaining that he could feel Calor Diman drawing him like a lodestone, that he would be able to navigate by it for the rest of his days.

He knew where they were headed long before Loren asked if he would mind visiting the third tribe. It was hard to imagine that there was anything he didn't know about Loren after so long in each other's constant company. Years later he would laugh at himself, remembering that thought, but in truth there was something between them even then, something more than could be accounted for in a fortuitous meeting and an unexpected friendship.

Matt was unsure about the third tribe, at first. Since he'd met Loren they'd been mostly alone, or occasionally strangers together in some town or city. The Dalrei were more foreign to him than anyone they'd met, a people who lived for speed and grace and the overwhelming free enormity of the plains. He was wary of Gereint, too, afraid that his powers might divine Matt's secret and his loyalty to Loren might reveal it.

His misgivings were unfounded, in the end. Banor welcomed them gravely but sincerely into the tribe, where everyone was glad to see Loren and unconcernedly kind to his companion. There was a great feast held on the evening of their arrival, celebrating both Loren's return and the initiation of a young man named Cechtar, who had returned that morning after two days in Faelinn Grove. A group of hunters rode into the camp that afternoon, carrying eltor for the meal, and the young man in the lead flung himself from his horse with a shout.

"Loren!" he cried, seizing Matt's friend in an exuberant embrace. It was heartfelt, but slightly comical, as it smashed his face against Loren's chest. Matt found himself chuckling in fellow feeling.

"It's been nearly two years since we've had any news of you," said the Dalrei. "I was beginning to worry that you'd fallen into a ditch somewhere in the mountains and starved to death all on your own. It looks like you've taken precautions against that, though." He turned an inquiring glance on Matt. Loren laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.

"This is Matt. Matt, meet Ivor dan Banor."

"You are very welcome to the third tribe," said Ivor, drawing himself up with something a little closer to his father's dignity than Matt had seen thus far. "Any friend of Loren is a friend of ours."

"Well, I do try to stop him falling into ditches," said Matt. Ivor grinned at him.

"A friend indeed," he said. "And you're doubly welcome if you'll regale us with the story of what you two have actually been doing."

"I'm sure Gereint will forbid anyone to feed me if I don't share at least a tale or two," said Loren, neatly taking that task upon himself. Matt shot him a quick look of gratitude. It was comforting that Loren knew him so well, and even more so that he would remember amongst his own friends, when it was no longer just the two of them looking out for each other.

 

He was enough at ease after a week to send Loren out riding with Ivor without the slightest hesitation. An invitation had been extended to him as well, but he'd waved it off.

"Dwarves and horses were never meant to mix," he told Loren. "You go on, though, if they can find you something to ride where your feet won't drag on the ground."

Such an animal was produced, though not without a lot of good-natured mockery about Loren's possible Paraiko blood, and Matt watched the two of them ride away. Loren seemed to be a good horseman, to his admittedly inexpert eye, though nowhere near the fluid grace of Banor's son.

"At least we'll get a bit of peace and quiet with the two of them gone," said Gereint. Matt started; he hadn't heard the shaman approach.

Gereint was perhaps where Matt's nerves had been most unfounded. He'd expected someone stern, wielding great power with authority over those around him. Power Gereint certainly had, but Matt rarely caught glimpses of it through the wry humor and good cheer which seemed to be most of his character. He was younger than Matt had expected, too, and quite capable of navigating the camp by himself. Matt surprised himself by genuinely liking the man.

"Be honest now," said Gereint. "Are you glad Loren brought you here?"

"I am," he said, with no hesitation.

"That's good to hear. He's a bit like a young suitor bringing his beloved home for approval, isn't he?"

Matt laughed. He'd laughed more with the Dalrei than he had since leaving the mountains.

"I've been thinking just that," he admitted.

"Well, you have my approval, although I can't imagine it would have changed Loren's mind if you didn't."

"Perhaps not. That doesn't mean it's not important to him, though." It was important to Matt, too, although he didn't say it. Gereint knew. No reason to say so, otherwise.

"I don't know why he doesn't just ask me," he said instead.

"Oh, that's easy enough," said Gereint. "He's afraid you'll say no."

There was a moment of silence while Matt absorbed that.

"Mind you," continued Gereint, "if I didn't know better, I would have thought you were already bonded."

Matt had wondered what Gereint saw, looking at he and Loren. They all three had their own sense of the future. Loren had his premonitions, which Matt had never seen, but had tried to piece together as best he could from Loren's uncharacteristically fumbling explanation. An excess of feeling, he'd said, like some emotion resonating form the future so strongly that he couldn't help but sense it. Blind Gereint could see truly, clearly, into the future of the world, but also into men's spirits. Matt himself claimed no form of magic. He had spent a night by Calor Diman under the full moon, though- oh, most beautiful- and no one could survive that unchanged. He had walked away, but the lake was still in his blood, in his bones. There were times when he knew things with a surety deeper than thought.

"There's something woven with the two of us, isn't there?" he said, only half a question.

"There is," said Gereint. There was an odd tone to his voice, almost reluctant.

"If you know that and you approve of me, why be so solemn?" Matt asked, the answer coming to him as he spoke. "What else have you seen?"

Gereint grunted but said nothing, half-turning as if to look out over the plain.

"Gereint, tell me, please."

"It might not even mean what I think it does. Either way, sometimes it's better not to know. If it is to be woven, we will know in time."

"It's my own life. You can't tell me I don't have a right to know, not if I am making this decision."

"Are you sure?"

"I can bear the knowledge."

"I didn't doubt it. That isn't what I asked."

"I'm sure. I would rather know."

"Very well," said Gereint. He nodded toward where Loren had disappeared over the horizon. "If you follow him, it will be your death."

There was a moment's sadness for what it would do to Loren, but mostly Matt was relieved. He'd feared something much worse, that he would manage to start a war between humans and dwarves, perhaps, insisting on staying where he didn't belong, or something to do with Loren's premonition that they didn't speak of, a nameless darkness waiting for them somewhere ahead.

"Is that all?" he said. "Well, something was bound to."

 

\---

 

After, when Matt woke- beyond all comprehension, what had been done there at the heart of the worlds- the first thing he knew was Loren. Then, in the space of one impossible heartbeat, there was Calor Diman, the call and the bitterness and the longing, the familiar pain that he had borne for so long. Some bonds did not break, not even in death. Another heartbeat, and another, and so came the rest: where he was, what had happened, the man holding his hands and who he must be and what he had done.

But first, Loren.

 

\--

 

It was the second morning after they'd left the Dalrei. They were walking again, perhaps aimlessly, or maybe Loren was leading them somewhere else. They were headed east at the moment, Banir Lok directly ahead of them across the plains. It dragged at Matt's steps, seeing it so deceptively close, where he could never go again. He thought instead about the two of them walking together. Loren had been given to long, ground-eating strides when they met, Matt to an unhurried plot, but over the months they'd adjusted to keep pace unconsciously. It seemed natural now. Matt tried to envision a future in which his pace might slow, Loren no longer beside him, and found that he couldn't, not even with the mountains ahead. He could only see one path. So.

"Are you ever going to ask me?" he said, breaking the comfortable silence. Loren stopped short.

"I- yes," he said, sounding unsure. "But Matt, it's forever. What about the Dwarves? Your people?"

Banir Lök and Banir Tal were dark on the horizon. Kaen was king there now; there had been plenty of full moons since he'd left. Matt had felt each one. Perhaps a night by the crystal lake had changed him, as it had changed Matt. Possible, but he knew it wasn't true, knew some things deeper than thought. Kaen would never change. He had betrayed every one of his subjects, leaving. Guilt, beyond the pain, that he was only finding now.

He took a breath, turned.

"Let the past be the past," he said. "It's over now, I can't go back. There's nothing tying me to the mountains." The worlds felt heavy. The lie he was speaking, he thought, would be the core of his life, perhaps forever.

 

So Loren taught him the runes, scratched haphazardly right there in the dirt. Skylore, secret and transient, in the vast empty openness of the plain. It seemed the antithesis of everything Matt knew. Dwarves were made for depths, for darkness and twisting pathway and jagged, beautiful stone, underfoot and on all sides, looming up until the sky was barely more than an afterthought, a glimpse. He thought for a moment that Amarigen's magic would be too alien, that the runes would never twist into meaning, for him, but they did. Loren was a good teacher. Something woven with the two of them, Gereint had agreed.

They finished the ritual as night was falling and stood looking at each other under the first stars.

"Go on, then," said Matt gruffly. Loren shifted a little, resettling his weight. There was an anticipation in him, in both of them, like a bow drawn tight.

"You might want to brace yourself. It's- I don't know what it's going to do."

"I'll be fine," said Matt. He spread his feet apart, planted himself solidly. "Start with something simple. If I fall over it's not far to the ground, anyway."

Loren gave him a grin for that, in the middle of everything, and then raised his hand and said an unfamiliar word.

Matt had given his heart to Calor Diman. He'd walked away, known that he was leaving it behind, offered and accepted and left, lost forever. He'd had a soul left, though, and had made of that a gift as well, without understanding quite what he was doing. It had seemed right that it belong to Loren. It was Loren who had stopped him wanting death after he turned his back on everything he loved, but he hadn't thought, hadn't ever thought, that with his heart in the mountains he could ever want life again. Unlooked-for, undeserved, what had happened.

Matt had been a craftsman all his life. He had left that behind, too, forever, a smaller sorrow but no less painful. He had thought. Magic, though, felt like giving over the raw stuff of his soul and Loren's hands shaping, molding, crafting it into something as unbearably beautiful as the crystal dragon he'd once made in supplication, every inch shining and perfect.

He didn't know what time had passed. Loren was standing still, silver light spilling form his upraised palm, etching the world around them into brilliant detail. It sent ripples of shadow through his cloak, caught starlight in his hair, frosted every blade of grass. He looked proud, good, the person he might grow to be. Matt could see- or maybe feel, he wasn't sure- his emotions warring, triumph and gratitude and wonder.

Matt had given his heart to Calor Diman, and that was a pain that would never heal or fade. He'd never thought that in this second gift he might find a joy to balance it.

"Are you all right?" Loren asked his source, after minutes or hours or lifetimes had passed, and Matt couldn't find any words at all.

 

\---

 

The night after the five left Fionavar was chaos. There was the Unraveller freed, Aileron intent on war, Jaelle insistent on Kim's last message that none of them had heard. There was Matt- oh, Matt- who Loren had finally been forced to put out of his mind because he was the First Mage of Brennin in a time of crisis and he was needed and if he allowed himself to think of Matt it would be all he could do.

It was over now, though, at least for a little. Aileron had finally accepted that everything could not be settled in one night and sent them all to bed. What rest anyone could get at a time like this was another question entirely, but if the king wanted actual strategy from his advisors he'd have to let them try.

So Loren was alone, walking back to the mages' chambers. The halls of the palace were empty and quiet in the early hours of the morning. Matt had gone to find Brock a room, probably stayed to talk with him. It was strange, walking alone. Loren felt like he could count on two hands the number of times he'd traversed these halls without Matt by his side, although he knew it wasn't true, not in forty years worth of nights. Still.

Duty done, finally, walking through dark and stone, he turned his mind to what Matt had said after so long. It had hurt, terribly, for Matt and for himself, for forty years of secrets and for his own powerlessness. It had also been a relief. They were mage and source, after all, and Loren had long known that there was a part of Matt he could not touch, some constant sadness that was held from him.

It had been maybe a year or two after Matt had returned with him to Brennin; it was hard to remember. The whole thing had a little bit of the quality of a dream. He'd woken at some unknowable time in the middle of the night to find Matt standing by the window, moonlight illuminating a terrible, weary pain on his face. The full moon, Loren thought now, understanding coming years later. The full moon, and Loren asleep. A tide in the heart, Matt had said. There would never be a respite from the longing, but there was, from time to time, a respite from hiding it.

Except Loren had not been asleep.

"What's wrong?" he'd asked, unable to stay silent. Mat turned, slowly, composing himself.

"It's nothing."

"It's not."

"Nothing," Matt repeated. With his back to the moonlit window his face was in shadow, hard to read. "I just couldn't sleep, that's all."

An obvious lie, but just as obvious that Matt wouldn't say more.

"Is there something I can do, then?" Let me help, though you will not tell me what with. He watched Matt struggle with the decision for a long moment until he finally sighed, giving in, need triumphing over willpower- rare, that, for his source.

"Would you do some magic?" He asked. "Just a little. Something beautiful."

Loren didn't understand, but then he hadn't asked to, only to help. He thought for a moment. Something beautiful.

The fire had long since died won. Loren knelt by it and, pulling just a finger of strength from Matt, picked up a single ember with his bare hands. He could see Matt's stance relax just the tiniest bit in the instant he called on their bond. He stood, carefully feeding the ember strength until it burned with a thing flame, a few inches high. This was the hardest part. Loren's power had always been strong, even more so with Matt at his side, but at that age control had been his weakest point.

Matt took the ember from him without a moment's hesitation- Loren remembered the trust there making his heart clench- and they sat there, watching the little flame change colors to Loren's whim, until he was fighting to keep his eyes open.

"You'd best go to bed before you doze off and set something on fire," said Matt. Loren, reluctant, let the ember die and tossed it back into the fireplace. Matt caught his arm as he started to stand.

"Thank you," he said simply, and Loren still didn't understand, but at least when he looked over his shoulder Matt hadn't gone back to the window.

 

That had been nearly forty years ago. An unfathomably long time not to understand.

Loren had half-expected Matt to be gone until morning, but instead he was sitting quietly in their rooms when Loren opened the door. He would have nothing more to say than what he had said in the hall, but if Loren wanted to talk about it he would, would answer as many questions as he was able. That was why he was here, perhaps. He knew the way Loren's mind worked. They knew each other impossibly well, after all these years.

Loren did want to talk about it, wanted to hear every last detail, and maybe even shout a little, something to ease the ache he'd been carrying in his chest all evening. They were who they were, though, and Loren, who might have been called self-centered in his youth, had thought of Matt first for a long time now. More than anything, he kept remembering the grief on Matt's face when Brock had called him king.

Something beautiful, he had said, nearly forty years ago.

Loren sat down next to him. It was very late. He didn't break the silence with any of the thousand questions and recriminations and apologies that were in his head, just reached gently for Matt through their bond and began to shape.

An image in the air, like the one he'd made of Fionavar in another world, more recently than seemed possible. This one was new, though, unpracticed, although he had seen it in his mind's eye many times. He crafted it slowly, piece by piece:

The plain, first. A wide expanse, long grass rippling in the breeze, night sky above it, the deepest hue of blue to come before black. Then two figures. Himself, dark-haired as he had not been for many years, Matt with both his eyes. The two of them facing each other, so young. He made every detail of leaf and cloth, the rustle of unseen animals, the touch of the wind, filling the room until he might have half lost himself, save for Matt's grounding presence beside him. Magic, Matt had said. Something beautiful.

Last, he placed the stars, scattered innumerable on the vast vault of sky above the plain. In the scene- as in his memory- there was no moon at all, save the silver light spilling from his upraised palm, illuminating the world.

 

\--

 

"Were I Metran, what would you have done?" Loren had asked him, aboard the Prydwen in the moment of calm before everything that was to come.

It was not a question he needed to think about, despite his bluster. Matt had always known himself well, and years as Loren's source through training and emergency alike had taught him the exact limits of his strength, his capacity. He had walked away from Calor Diman. He would bear the pain of that, the guilt and the longing, through every moment of his life. He could not, not ever, no matter how much he might wish it, give up Loren, too. It was a simple fact. There was only so much one could bear in this life.

It was something that worried him, on occasion. He had placed the burden of their joint power entirely on Loren, Loren whom Gereint called fierce and Matt often- sometimes to his face- called headstrong. If he had been Metran, if he had for whatever reason turned away from the light or from Brennin or life itself, Matt would be at his side.

Loren had seemed to take comfort from knowing it, there on the boat before the battle, and for that at least Matt was wryly grateful. They were too dependent on each other, he and Loren, but then all of them were. That was the heart and the danger of the skylore both. No power in the all the worlds but it was a double-edged blade.

 

\--

 

The message came on a spring morning that Loren had declared too beautiful to waste indoors; he was seated at a low table in the gardens, his silver head and Aileron's small dark one bent solemnly over quill and paper. As Matt understood it he wouldn't have been officially called on to tutor the prince for a few years yet, but Loren had commented that there was no point in keeping sums and letters separate from history and politics, if that was what they'd eventually be used for. Matt suspected that Loren simply like the young prince. He was unlikely to have children of his own, and Aileron was bold and self-possessed and impossibly bright- a bit like Loren himself as a child, from the stories Matt had heard.

Diarmuid was the first to notice the messenger. He'd refused to be left inside and was sitting at Matt's feet, happily scratching lines in the mud in imitation of his brother's shaky letters. When he leapt up it startled Matt out of a doze.

"A message for Loren Silvercloak," said then man at the gate, bowing now that he'd been noticed.

"I'll take it," said Matt. They were used to acting in each other's places. No one in Brennin would blink an eye at Matt taking a message meant for Loren; there were no secrets between mage and source. No secrets, save one.

He prised Diarmuid's filthy hand off his knee and took the parchment with a word of thanks. Loren and Aileron had barely looked up form their lesson. Years later, he would remember unfolding the letter- half asleep in the sun, Diar playing by his feet, Loren advising the prince in the utterly inconsequential matter of his penmanship- and think that it was an incongruously mundane moment for a summons that would change so much.

 

\--

 

Ysanne rarely visited the court, even in those days; she harbored a resentment toward Metran that went as far back as Raederth's death, and had no great love for Ailell either. So Loren and Matt made their excuses and set out for her lake, as instructed in the letter Matt had read that day in the garden. Loren took care not to make the excuses too specific. He and Ysanne had more trust in each other than either of them had in Metran, who saw magic as a force to be wielded. Loren had come to his power another way, though, and might have become a seer, had he been other than he was.

Ysanne met them graciously, as always, Loren hiding his surprise at how much older she'd seemed to grow in the last few years. She brought a repast down to the edge of the water and Loren told her the news from Paras Derval while they ate. Matt was quiet, looking out over the lake, but that wasn't unusual.

"I sent because I have a task for you," said Ysanne, when pleasantries had been exhausted. "I've had a dream for four nights running now: my successor has been born. The next seer of Brennin."

"Surely that's good news?" said Loren.

"Yes, although I fear what fate may be in store for her. There is a problem, though. I believe her to be in another world."

"Another world?"

"One far from here, where she will not know the name Fionavar. You must find a way to bring her when the time is right."

"Ysanne, no one living knows how to travel between worlds," said Loren.

"No, but it is possible, is it not? Raederth used to speak of it, in theory. He wanted to try one day."

"It's in Amairgen's writings," said Matt, speaking for the first time, "thought little of those remain."

"I know you will succeed," said Ysanne, "because I have dreamed my successor here, in Fionavar, but also because I suspect Matt's strength is greater than that of any human source."

Loren had thought as much for some years now, though he had never given voice to it. He grinned at the compliment. Matt just said,

"Even so, we are lacking a great deal of the necessary knowledge. It would have to be trial and error- dangerous trial and error."

"Well," said Ysanne calmly, "you have her whole childhood to get it right."

And so they did. It was half a game at first, a secret project touching the heart of the skylore, the thrill of the new world itself when they reached it. They would cross over for a day or two here and there, steadily shaping Lorenzo Marcus into reality, a brief escape from the tension that no one wanted to admit was growing in Fionavar. The years passed. As Lorenzo Marcus punctuated his mysterious silences with article after article, the rains slowed and then ceased in Fionavar. Ailell refused the summons of the Summer Tree; Aileron, a man, now, with the same driven purpose he'd had while mastering his spelling, was exiled and his name forbidden; Loren's lifelong premonition of darkness grew strong enough to leave him shaking in their wake.

When Metran voiced his idea of five visitors from another world, one to celebrate each decade of the king's rule, there was no need for Ysanne's message the following day to tell them that this was the time. They left the palace quietly four nights before the celebration. The air was parched, restless with the rustling of dry plant life and the heavy sense, dogging all of them for weeks now, that something was stretching thin enough to break.

It took Loren nearly an hour to scratch the runes into the dust, working by his own silver magelight, closing a circle of power around the two of them. Matt was already sweating by the time he finished. They stood, facing each other, under the stars. Forty years they'd had together, no way to know if it would be enough to stop whatever was building, no way to know what they were setting in motion with this journey.

Matt widened his stance, planting his feet, a motion as familiar to Loren as his own stride.

"Ready?" Loren asked. And Matt said,

"I'm with you."


End file.
